chapter 10.4

In the blacksmith forge of the central headquarter, the air was filled with the rhythmic clang of metal striking metal, sparks flying as blades were sharpened and reforged. The scent of heated iron, oil, and sweat blended into an atmosphere only understood by those who lived at The Wall.

Alcard stood in a corner, firmly gripping a whetstone, dragging it along the edge of his sword in steady, deliberate motions. Each stroke restored the blade's sharpness, erasing the dullness left behind by the brutal battle they had fought only days ago.

Across the room, rookie outcasts worked with noticeably slower movements, their faces still shadowed by trauma. Not a single one of them had survived the mission to retrieve Folwestian Bloom and Rotrofila Root. Though Alcard's expression remained unreadable, his heart carried the weight of deep sorrow. But at The Wall, there was no room for mourning. There was no time to grieve for those who had fallen, because every day, the monsters from the south lurked—waiting for an opening.

The groan of heavy wooden wheels echoed from the distance, shattering the monotonous rhythm of the forge. The sound grew closer, accompanied by the measured footsteps of armed soldiers marching in formation.

Alcard slowed his movements, his eyes turning toward the gates of the central headquarter, which were slowly being drawn open to receive the approaching convoy.

Five large wagons rolled into the fortress yard, each filled with prisoners, their wrists and ankles bound in heavy iron chains. Their faces were dirty, hollow, and etched with exhaustion. Some bore fresh wounds, likely from torture or the brutal journey. Encircling the wagons, Jovalian soldiers stood with spears poised, their expressions cold and unfeeling, as if this task were nothing more than a mundane routine unworthy of thought.

One of the senior outcasts standing near Alcard let out a bitter smirk at the sight. His tone dripped with cynicism as he muttered, "See that? It's all coming apart now."

Alcard kept his gaze on the prisoners, his voice even. "The civil war in Jovalian?"

The senior outcast nodded, his expression grim. "That's right. The Second Prince's faction and the Prime Minister's supporters have finally lost control. They're tearing each other apart. And as always, the ones who suffer aren't the rulers—but people like them." He motioned toward the prisoners packed tightly in the wagons.

Alcard's eyes narrowed as he examined the faces behind the wooden bars. Most of them weren't soldiers. They looked more like common folk—elderly men, young adults, even women. Some bore vacant stares, while others radiated suppressed fury. With a cold edge to his voice, he observed, "Political enemies. Civilians who refused to submit to the new rulers. Perhaps even innocent families."

The senior outcast nodded again, his voice quieter now. "They'll keep sending more of them here. That only means one thing—Jovalian's so-called peace is truly dead."

As the wagons came to a stop, the Jovalian soldiers wasted no time. They ripped open the wooden doors, dragging prisoners out one by one—uncaring if they stumbled or collapsed. The rattling of chains clashed against the muted groans of the captives, creating a sound akin to a funeral dirge.

Some prisoners tried to retain their dignity, standing tall despite the wounds on their bodies. Others were too weak to rise without help.

At the front of the yard, Oldman descended from The Wall, his steps steady and his expression unreadable. He accepted a stack of documents from a Jovalian officer, scanning the contents in silence before sweeping his gaze over the prisoners. Finally, he gave a small nod.

With an authoritative voice, he ordered the outcast seniors, "Take them to the temporary quarantine quarters. Have them inspected before we decide whether they stay or not."

The outcasts moved in unison, escorting the captives toward the barracks designated for new arrivals. Some prisoners still had the will to resist, but starvation and exhaustion had already claimed their strength.

From a distance, Alcard watched. His gaze followed the Jovalian soldiers as they turned their backs and departed without a second glance. His expression remained impassive, but when he finally spoke to the senior outcast beside him, there was an unmistakable bitterness in his tone.

"Their chaos becomes our burden. No matter who wins their war, The Wall will always be forgotten."

The senior outcast let out a dry chuckle, glancing toward the prisoners now standing in a line under heavy guard. "And they'll keep dumping their weaklings on us."

Alcard took a deep breath, then returned his focus to his sword. He resumed sharpening it with quiet precision, but his thoughts churned restlessly.

The Jovalian civil war was no longer just an internal struggle. Its ripple effects had already reached The Wall.

And he knew—this was only the beginning.

The world's political intrigue had finally reached them, and as always, those at The Wall would bear the consequences.

The Wall had always been a dumping ground—for the monsters of the south, and for the unwanted humans from the outside world.

No matter who sat on the throne in Jovalian, they would continue to send their burdens here.

And Alcard knew—sooner or later, the war they had tried to avoid would find its way to them.

****